THINGS I WANT TO REMEMBER

When I was five, I lived on 16th avenue. There are bits and pieces in which resonate my mind every so often. I remember marriage. I remember writing on the walls and baby corn and naps on the couch. The first time I got the chicken pox. I remember it all so well and I was so small, not aware of the feelings that consumed me the way they did others. The curls on my head grew, along with my mother and father. There were times when my dad would wake me up a half an hour later than I did for school just to let me sleep in. He would sometimes pick me up in the middle of the day and let me leave. This was the prime of my childhood. It was the constant reassurance that I was loved – and it came unconditional. It did not have any rules. It breathed on its own. It swallowed up every fiber in my body, structuring me, molding me as I am now. I just want to write. I don’t know what about. But it will be pages long, and I’ll continue until I feel like I cannot anymore. These are the things I wish I’d said.

my mind is always everywhere. i live for words. sometimes they aren't my own, and i post them here. sometimes i will post things that are mine. this blog is a collection of photographs i take and the things that i want to remember.

things - my things - personal

~ Friday, February 10 ~
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February in Wisconsin makes up for late winter, as the years pass on. It brings small indecisive snowflakes that can’t make up their mind, hitting my cheeks and shoulders and thick auburn hair. The skin on my fingers and arms swells up and makes everything drier; I look 10 years older than I am. I am as indecisive as the snowflakes. I wish for it to stop and when it does, I wish for it to come back. I wish for things that don’t belong to me. I wish for the things that attach itself to the arteries of my heart, making its beat thicker and more vulnerable each time the snow falls. I think of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” and it reminds me of the Golden Gate Bridge and candlelit rooms filled with cigarette smoke and endless amounts of wine passed between us and our lips and my leg on yours. It’s a strange and it’s a broken hallelujah.

I am thinking of my eighteenth year, and fall in Chicago. I am thinking of my sun kissed freckles and the way my body corresponds with what the seasons have to offer. My hair blossoms, my complexion relaxes, and my body takes shape. 

Tags: My things
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  1. synchronizedsmoking posted this